


To See a Tiger

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Smuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: In the aftermath of The Adventure of the Tiger Cubs, Watson reveals just how much he edits some of his manuscripts
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spawned by two really old JWP prompts, to be listed in the last chapter’s notes (because spoilers)

“I cannot understand the current trend either.”

“It makes no sense!” I exclaimed. “They are not _things_ to be bought and sold. They are living, or they would be, if they were not killed for their parts as soon as they were no longer cute.” His words belatedly registered, and I jerked my gaze from the paper to find him smirking at me.

“Holmes!” I affected a scowl. “Don’t _do_ that!”

One of his rare laughs broke free, and I struggled to project irritation. This was not the first time he had responded to my thoughts over the years, but that never lessened my reaction—amusement that I tried to hide behind irritation.

“You would have been burned at the stake a hundred years ago,” I told him, still trying to kill the grin fighting to escape. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“Simplicity itself,” he answered, still smirking. “You have mentioned many times that you spent some time in India before the year your unit joined the war effort in Afghanistan, and you could hardly have been in the country for long without hearing tell of the local Bengal tigers, whose populations are dropping. There was a refuge near the coast that would have still been in operation when you were stationed there.”

“Of course, but what does that have to do with my thoughts just now?”

“Twice you have snapped the paper in frustration, and you have it open to page four. When I add your muttering about cubs, what else could you be reading than the article on the illegal tiger trade supplying those with more money than intellect with exotic pets?”

We were in the sitting room, I in my armchair and Holmes near the door holding the telegram that had just arrived. It had been a quiet morning until Holmes had decided to read my thoughts aloud, and I shook my head at him, folding the paper and setting it aside. “Of course. It is always simple after you explain it.” I turned my attention to the note in his hand.

“We have a case,” he confirmed when he noticed my gaze on the telegram, “which is what prompted me to interrupt your train of thought, especially when I noticed the topic. Are you familiar with trade routes and their operation?”

“Only vaguely.”

He flicked a hand. “No matter. I am sure we will learn as much as we need to begin from our client.” A knock sounded on the door below. “Excellent timing. Watson?”

Tossing me my notebook as he passed my desk, he seated himself in the other armchair as footsteps sounded on the landing.

“Enter,” he called in reply to the knock, and the door swung open to reveal a tall, lean young man standing on the threshold as if in the door of a ship. He was dressed in the simple shirt, trousers, and sturdy shoes of a common sailor, holding a hat that had flattened brownish-red hair. His deep tan spoke of time spent at sea, while the lack of wrinkles on his face showed his youth. As Holmes had pointed out in another case, the time spent beneath the harsh sun between England and other common ports rendered experienced sailors’ faces sunburnt and weather creased.

“George Burns?” Holmes inquired, his keen gaze scanning the man in front of us.

“Aye,” he said in a high tenor, then cleared his throat, his voice lowering an octave. “Excuse me. I mean, yes, sir. You received my note?”

“Indeed. Pray be seated, and give us the details.” Holmes gestured to the settee, and I leaned forward with my pen ready as he continued, “Your note referred me to the recent increase in wildlife trade, suggesting that you believe something to be amiss on your ship?”

He nodded and sat. Something about him seemed somehow _off_ , and I studied him as he answered, “I have reason to believe that my father is dealing in more than simply the spice trade he claims, but I dare not go to the police on the chance I am wrong. We travel regularly between London and Bombay, with a couple of ports in between, and he claims we transport only spices, profiting off of the military families who acquired a taste for them while stationed out east. I hoped you and Doctor Watson would be able to prove or disprove what I fear is actually going on.”

“Start at the beginning,” Holmes broke in, steepling his fingers in thought as he studied the young man in front of us.

“Right,” Mr. Burns said with a sigh. “Sorry. I am the only child of Richard and Marthe Burns. Before my mother died, she and I would travel the trade routes with my father. I grew up on his ship, with my mother teaching me anything land-related and my father anything sea-related. By the time I was eleven, my normal chores in addition to my schoolwork included the normal upkeep of a ship—similar to the work of a cabin boy. I continued this life even after my mother died a few years ago, and my father has been slowly teaching me how to captain. He has progressively gotten larger and larger ships as trade thrived, and as his only child, he naturally wants me to take it from him when he becomes too old to sail.”

Holmes leaned back in his chair, studying the man intently, and Mr. Burns broke off, nearly squirming in his seat. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

My friend brushed the question aside. “Simply wondering something. Continue.”

Mr. Burns stared for a moment before chuckling. “You saw through me that quickly?”

Holmes smirked. “I noticed as soon as you opened the door. Watson would say it is written on your face. Was it your idea or your father’s?”

“Mine,” Mr. Burns admitted before I could voice my confusion, “but he was quite willing. I have no brothers.”

“What are you talking about?” I finally broke in.

“I know you have noticed it, Watson,” Holmes told me, his smirk widening, “even if you did not know you noticed it. What would you expect a man in his twenties to have on his face?”

I frowned. On his face? What would anyone have on his face?

Mr. Burns nearly spoke, but Holmes waved him to silence before turning to look at me, and the difference hit me as the shadows played over his jaw. Even this early in the day, Holmes was beginning to show a bit of stubble on his cheeks, yet Mr. Burns’ face was as clean as a youth’s.

“Ah, you have seen it,” Holmes announced as the realization no doubt crossed my expression. “You may want to make provision for that, Mr. Burns,” he suggested, ignoring our client’s surprise at the prefix, “should you decide to repeat the disguise. A man in his twenties, which age you are at least, would certainly not have as smooth a face as you display.”

Our client’s mouth nearly fell open at his words. “You—”

Shock seemed to steal the rest of the sentence, and I spoke before it grew too awkward. “Why should we care if you were born George or Georgiana? Wait, you said your mother’s name was Marthe, so why should we care if you were born George or Georgine? You introduced yourself as George. Was George who you are or a disguise for the consultation?”

“A disguise,” she answered, her voice returning to the high tenor as she removed the band she had been using to give her short hair a man’s hairstyle. “I use the name but not the prefix, except when I go into town to do business. The last time I announced to anyone aside from my father and our crew that I wanted to captain a ship, he treated me to an hour’s lecture on the proper behavior for a young lady.”

“You have no fear of that here, Miss Burns,” I assured her.

“Indeed,” Holmes replied, “and not knowing such a detail may have interfered with my investigation.” A smile spread across her face, but Holmes continued before she could reply, “but you expected me to see through it eventually, did you not? Aside from cinnamon, pepper, and nutmeg, what do you transport?”

“Those three, mostly,” was the surprised answer. “We occasionally get requests for cardamom, saffron, and ginger, and, more frequently, turmeric. The prices change with nearly every trip, and much of how we plan involves anticipating what will sell two or three months from now. The canal made travel faster, but it still takes nearly a month to reach India.”

“Naturally.” Holmes leaned back in his chair, finally assuming his customary listening position. “How many men does he employ?”

“Twenty-five permanently and thirty to thirty-five at most, depending on how long we stay in port. All my life he has been captain, but recently he has been delegating some of the work to his first mate. I have been trying to get him to use me instead of the mate, but he holds that I am too young to manage it alone.”

“So you began learning to manage it behind his back in the hopes that when you excelled, he would include you more,” Holmes finished, and a smirk tried to escape at the surprise crossing our client’s face yet again. “Come, it is not that much of a leap. You have spent your life on the ship, and you would not have continued after your mother’s death if you were not both interested in the trade and close with your father. The fact that you came to me instead of the police confirms that.”

Miss Burns hesitated but nodded. “I can’t imagine that my father would do such a thing,” she told us, “but the numbers stopped lining up a few months ago. At first, I thought I was doing something wrong, as he had been having me work on old ledgers before letting me touch the current ones, but I checked my numbers three times. We are profiting heavily off of a small amount of cargo. We are less than full for each trip, but our profits suggest our ship should sink from the weight. I could see the numbers not balancing the other way, if we had a thief, but how else would we get such a profit? Either our goods are selling for nearly double market value, or we are selling something else. I tried to ask him about it, but he refused to listen to me, so I decided to come to you as soon as we docked.”

“Have you noticed anything strange on board?”

“Only once, in the middle of a storm. If we are transporting animals, they are kept sedated the entire trip. You have seen the current rates; it would only take one or two of some animals to coincide with the numbers I am seeing, and it would be simple to hide them on board. My father has very different duties than I, and sometimes I do not see him for days. We are both kept so busy on deck and in the captain’s quarters, neither of us ever go lower than the berths, if even there, and I did not have a chance to explore after the storm.”

“I see. What is the name of your ship and how long are you in London?”

“We are the _Lady Pearl._ Our ship needs repairs from a storm off the coast of Portugal, so we will be in the city for three or four days.”

He nodded, glancing at me to make sure I had noted that. “One more question,” he said, noting the way she glanced at the mantle clock. She flushed, but he continued before she could apologize. “Have you thought about what you will do if you are correct?”

“If I’m right—” she faltered, directing her gaze into her lap. “I cannot believe I am right,” she finally answered quietly, “but I will not stand in the way of the law. That is why I came to you, to avoid a scandal when you prove that I am wrong.”

“When?”

She nodded fervently, looking back up to hold his gaze. “I can’t believe my father would do this. There _must_ be something else going on, something about this I am missing.”

“Well, then. If I may have a way of contacting you,” he slipped the proffered card into a pocket, “I have a few lines of inquiry I must follow. I will let you know as there are any developments.”

The door closed behind her, and Holmes leaned back into his chair with a frown.

“What do you make of it, Watson?” he asked after several long minutes.

I did not answer immediately. “I hope she is wrong,” I finally said. “That someone would do such a thing…” I let the sentence trail off.

“Yes,” he mused when I did not continue. Suddenly, he leaped from his chair. “You will be available the rest of today?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“If they only just reached port,” he answered my questioning look as he hurried into his bedroom, “now is the best time to observe.” He returned a few minutes later, disguised as a dockhand. “I shall return or send for you in a few hours. This may require perfect timing, so stay here.”

I frowned thoughtfully as the door closed behind him, for once following at least a small portion of his reasoning with ease. If the ship had just docked, and if it was indeed carrying live cargo, this evening, after darkness fell, would be the perfect time for them to offload. He would only have a few hours to find the information he needed to have any hope of rescuing the victims if such a crime was taking place.


	2. Chapter 2

He was gone for most of the day, and I used the time to clean my revolver and organize my notes from one of our previous cases. That done, I was just settling with a book when a knock carried up from the floor below. Thinking it might be a message from Holmes, I stood, laying the book aside, but Mrs. Hudson’s voice carried faintly up the stairs.

“Mr. Holmes is out, but I believe the doctor is still up in the sitting room.”

I could not hear a reply, and I grew wary. Occasionally, we had someone follow a client to try to scare one or both of us off a case. If someone had followed Miss Burns, it would not do to be unprepared, and I quickly grabbed my revolver, staying out of immediate sight of the door as I kept the weapon at my side.

“Hello?” Lestrade’s voice rang out just before he appeared in the doorway.

I relaxed and moved back across the room, setting the revolver on the table next to my chair and resuming my seat. “Lestrade,” I greeted, gesturing for him to make himself comfortable. “What brings you here?”

He claimed a spot on the settee, nervously fiddling with the hat in his hands. “A question for Mr. Holmes,” he admitted. “Something about this case over in Surrey is stumping me, and I hoped he could shed some light on it. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

I shook my head. “He is working a case down by the docks. It has a bit of a time frame on it.”

Another knock, one much more hurried, carried up the stairs before Lestrade could reply, and when the door opened without Mrs. Hudson answering it, I stood again, quickly placing myself between the door and the settee with my revolver out of sight behind my leg.

Lestrade nearly jumped to his feet as he realized what I had done, but footsteps pounding up the stairs cut off the forming question.

“Doctor! Doctor Watson!”

The revolver landed back on the table with a thump as I recognized the voice carrying up the stairs, and young Tim appeared in the doorway a moment later, rushing over to me.

“Doctor Watson! Mr.Holmesneedsyoutohurryandhesaidweneededtorun!”

“Woah, lad, slow down.” I gripped his shoulders, steadying him as he fought to catch his breath after sprinting his section of the relay Holmes always used for urgent messages. “You know I cannot understand you without the spaces between your words.”

“Mr. Holmes,” he panted, “said one escaped. North West India dock. You need to hurry before someone else finds it first.”

I spun away from Tim towards my desk, drilling the boy for more information as I quickly rifled through the drawers.

“What escaped?”

I ignored Lestrade’s question, shoving a ragged towel in my medical bag just in case while Tim tried to answer my rapid questions. He knew nothing else, however, and I voiced a question of my own when Lestrade repeated his.

“Tiger cub?” I confirmed. Tim nodded, and I double checked my revolver was loaded before pocketing it and turning toward the landing. “Are you coming?” I asked Lestrade.

“A _tiger cub_?” he repeated incredulously, nearly forgetting to follow me as I followed Tim through the door. “What is a tiger cub doing at the London docks?”

“Holmes was trying to prove or disprove a trafficking operation,” I said quickly, locking the door behind us and waving down a cab as Tim went back to his spot.

“Well, that would prove it!”

I ignored him as I quickly climbed into the cab. “West India docks,” I called to the driver. “An extra sovereign if you get us there in fifteen minutes!”

Lestrade barely seated himself before we started moving with a lurch, still trying to get over his surprise at the news of a tiger cub at the docks.

“What’s the case?” he finally asked.

I hesitated for only a moment before quickly outlining the information Miss Burns had given us, deciding that with this proof that there was indeed a smuggling operation connected with the _Lady Pearl_ , Holmes would need Lestrade’s help.

He did not answer immediately, horror at the idea playing across his face.

“They would…” He shook his head. “I will never understand some people,” he said quietly.

“This is not your first trafficking case,” I replied, tightening my grip on the side of the cab as we rounded a corner.

He shook his head again. “Of course not, but that doesn’t mean I’ll ever get used to them.”

I nodded. I would never understand how someone would treat another living thing so cruelly.

No more words passed between us before we pulled to a stop in front of the docks, and I quickly paid the cabbie—including the extra sovereign, though it had taken a bit longer than fifteen minutes—and hurried toward the small knot of people nearby.

“You are not in danger,” Holmes’ words carried over several nervous voices. “It is a _cub_. Ah, Watson! And Lestrade, too. Excellent. You shall have to tell me later what drew you away from the Yard.” Still wearing the disguise he had donned before leaving the flat—though he had dropped the voice—he led us both away from the crowd, updating us on the situation in a few sentences.

“The _Lady Pearl_ is there,” he said, gesturing to a three-masted steamer bobbing at the closest dock. “The cub escaped just over thirty minutes ago, and that man,” he gestured to a short, pug-nosed man in the middle of the group, “Davis, saw it first. He tried to catch it and was nearly bitten for his troubles. Failing, the imbecile raised the alarm that there was a tiger loose in London, which is what drew my attention. I last saw it wandering up that alley.”

“Injured?” I asked, glancing at the alley he indicated.

“Unknown. It ran from me.”

“It is probably hiding,” I replied. “That alley opens to the railroad, does it not?”

He nodded. “I have already posted a couple of Irregulars to the other side. The locals are afraid of it.”

I barely refrained from rolling my eyes. “Species does not change the fact that it is a frightened child. They have nothing to worry about. Keep them from following me.”

Lestrade sputtered something behind me, but I paid him no mind as I made my way to the mouth of the alley, giving the slowly growing crowd a wide berth before stopping a couple of steps into the shadows, listening.

Movement and faint breathing sounded from further in, and I fought to recall what I had learned so many years ago. Tigers used many vocalizations, and if I could imitate the right one, the cub would respond—or at least not run from me.

A memory came of an aborted purr. That was it, I recalled. Tigers could not purr, so they chuffed, and one of the handlers at the refuge I had visited had taught me how to imitate it.

I chuffed quietly, and it nearly echoed in the relative silence of the alley. The movement halted, and I chuffed again before stepping forward slowly. The faint breathing was still audible, and I slowly followed the sound to several bins and a pile of rubbish lining part of one wall. I chuffed again, trying to communicate that I would not hurt it, that I wanted to help, and slowly, a small face peered out of a hole made in the pile.

“Hello,” I said quietly, halting and slowly kneeling in the hopes it would come to me. “You are safe,” I continued, keeping my voice low and calm. Even if it could not understand my words, the handlers had told me the cubs would respond to tone. “I want to help. Will you let me help?”

The cub remained still, staring at me, and I chuffed again before pulling out some meat I had grabbed on the way out the door. Holding it with only the tips of my fingers, I reached it towards the cub and waited, chuffing again.

Slowly, so slowly I thought it might stay hidden and I would have to find another way of reaching it, the small face became a small head, and a smaller body crawled out of the debris littering the alley walls.

“It’s for you,” I said quietly, calmly, holding still as the cub gradually moved closer. It was so _small_ , no more than maybe two months old but barely bigger than a newborn, and I wondered if it would be able to eat the meat.

The cub—she, I noted with a glance once she was free of the debris—was apparently hungry enough to try, and the rough tongue carefully licked the meat from my fingers. I chuffed again, and the cub lunged at me, landing on my kneeling leg.

I chuckled faintly as she tried to curl up on my foot, and I slowly reached down. She made no protest when I gently picked her up and, after wrapping her in the towel for warmth and adjusting to carry her easier, I picked up the medical bag and turned to leave the alley.

Someone stood at the exit, and I reflexively turned to stay between them and the cub before I recognized Holmes.

“You will have to teach me how to do that,” he said with a faint smirk as I walked closer, his gaze on the underweight cub laying on my arm. “How is it?”

“ _She_ is malnourished, underweight, and barely old enough to eat solid food,” I answered with a scowl more at the situation than at him, my anger growing now that I held proof of what was going on. “Where is he?” I nearly growled.

“Easy, Tiger” he told me, still smirking but resisting laying a hand on my shoulder when the cub tried to growl at him, too. “Lestrade has gone for help from the Yard, and Captain and Miss Burns should arrive shortly after the official forces. The one responsible will not go free.”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to relax as I registered the smoldering anger in his gaze. He was just as furious as I was, and it would do me no good to scare the cub I carried on one arm.

“What does she need?” he asked, eying the too-thin cub that was staring back at him.

“Food and water, mostly, as will any others we find. I see no evidence of physical injury—” The cub readjusted, and a small series of lumps under the fur of her foreleg caught my attention. I swallowed hard before continuing, “except that she has been dosed with something—probably a sedative—several times over the last week at least. She will go through withdrawals eventually, depending upon which sedative they used.”

Reacting to Holmes’ scowl, she tried to shrink into my arm, hiding her face, and I chuffed at her softly as Holmes moved away. One blue eye peeked at me, and I chuffed again. The eye disappeared again, but I felt her relax, and I turned my attention back to where Holmes stood talking with an Irregular.

The boy darted down the street, and I followed Holmes back toward the ship to sit on one of the benches in the shade. I could feel the crowd watching me, but, aside from making sure there was no threat, I ignored them, more focused on checking over the cub as best I could.


	3. Chapter 3

“Lestrade!”

The call broke my attention from examining the cub, and I glanced up to see three Irregulars leaving to divide the coins Holmes had given them for a few containers of meat as Lestrade climbed down from a police wagon. Putting away my supplies, I gently picked up the cub and made my way to stand next to Holmes.

The inspector’s gaze focused on the young tiger as he walked closer. “Is the cub supposed to be that small?” he asked, eyes never leaving the tiny cub laying on my arm.

“No,” I replied shortly, anger still roiling inside of me. “She is about two months old, near as I can tell, and barely old enough to eat solid food. She weighs barely half of what she should.”

He frowned. “Those—” he cut himself off with a glance at the crowd a few constables were dispersing, wrenching his attention to Holmes instead. “Who is responsible for this?” he asked lowly.

“We will find out in a moment,” Holmes answered as another wagon bounced to a halt nearby. “That would be the captain. Watson?”

The name was a request for attention, and I glanced over to see him staring at me, his own anger clear enough in his gaze. I nodded. Human or not, the cub was young, a child, and my fatherly instincts wanted to find and attack the one responsible. I would let him handle it, however. He had more information than I did, and I would not want to accuse an innocent man.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped down from the wagon and strode toward us, our client behind him. Miss Burns must have taken more after her mother, for the captain’s bright red hair nearly shimmered in the sun, and where Miss Burns was lean, her father was stocky. His solid build would easily fill a doorway.

“What is going on here?” he asked, nearly leaving his daughter behind in his haste to answer the message Holmes must have sent. “What is wrong with my ship?”

Holmes had been standing between me and the captain, and he deliberately stepped aside. Miss Burn’s eyes widened as she immediately focused on the cub laying on my arm.

“Papa! How could you?”

Confusion and surprise crossed his face, gaze locked on the young tiger. “What is a tiger cub doing here? And what does that have to do with my ship?”

“What do you think it has to do with the ship!” Miss Burns broke in before Holmes could answer, all her focus on where her father stood staring at me. “How could you be smuggling tiger cubs— _children—_ out of India? No wonder you wouldn’t listen to me!”

“What—I didn’t—” He looked back and forth between me and his daughter, trying to form a full sentence.

“Calm down, Miss Burns,” Holmes told her, his keen gaze noting every second of Captain Burns’ reaction. “Your father just confirmed what I already knew.”

“Someone has been using _my ship_ to do this?!” he bellowed, his confusion turning to anger as the realization washed over him. His fists clenched as he turned towards Holmes.

“How much have you delegated the books the last several trips?” Holmes asked calmly.

Anger drained as horror filled his face, and I understood what about my own expressions Holmes so enjoyed. The captain’s reactions were even more obvious than my own, and his emotions seemed to change as quickly as an ocean storm.

“My first mate has been doing nearly all of it.” His horrified gaze landed on the cub I still held. “He’s been doing _that?”_

One of the Irregulars from earlier returned, handing a note to Holmes as Captain Burns stared at the tiger cub in horror.

“Good work, Tim,” Holmes told him. “Stay nearby in case I need you again.” Holmes turned to us as the boy scampered away. “Captain, we will need to search your ship.”

“Of course! All of it!” He waved us toward the gangway. “Crow’s nest to the hold. My word, how could I not have _noticed?”_

I tried to leave the cub on the dock, but she refused, digging her claws into my jacket, and the captain led us into the ship as the police spread out behind us. They started unlocking every door as they systematically searched the steamer, but before the captain could join them, Holmes directed us down to the hold. The cub I held lifted her head, one lip curling in an attempted snarl.

“I thought as much,” Holmes said, watching the cub. “Search the hold first. She was held down here somewhere.”

A canine might have led us directly to its fellows, but the cub in my hand merely burrowed its head into my jacket as I slowly moved under the low beams. I had traded my bag for a lantern, and the light cast eerie shadows over the many boxes stacked in the bowels of the ship, forcing me to search nearly in spirals as I made sure the light hit every corner. We had no idea where the cubs could be, and I looked for anything from a cage to a hidden door to simply a cub asleep in the corner, hoping they were not buried in the boxes, ropes, and other supplies littering the hold floor. I was trying to check behind several large coils of rope when I heard Holmes call out.

“To the stern!”

I hurried towards his voice, abandoning my search, and several lights followed me as other searchers answered the call. We converged in the rear of the hold, and Holmes’ lockpicks worked faster with the added light of the many lanterns. The door swung open within moments, and I lifted my lantern to cast the light over the darkened room. Six more cubs squeaked and tried to squeeze against the far wall, fighting to escape.

“Watson, what was that sound you made earlier?” Holmes asked when trying to approach one of the cubs got him a snarl.

I chuffed at them, and the cub gripping my arm lifted its head and squeaked. A couple of the ones in the corner stopped struggling and looked up at me, and I chuffed again, and again. Slowly, the cubs’ near panicked attempts to escape us calmed, and we carefully picked them up. Each of us left the hold carrying a cub or two except Holmes, who was still scowling after one of them tried to bite him. We carried them up to the deck, resulting in a couple of irritated squeaks as they tried to hide from the sunlight after being in the dark hold for so long.

“What can we do with them, Holmes?” I asked as they finally started to calm and look around. “The mother would never accept them even if we put them on the next ship back to India.”

“A man has been working with us on some of the more recent trafficking cases,” Lestrade answered me. “I have already asked if he would be able to care for them until they can be taken back to their own country.”

Holmes nodded as I breathed a sigh of relief. “That is better than anything they would get here,” I replied, staring at the cub now fast asleep on my arm. “They grow quickly, and within a few months will be able to easily escape any enclosure. Imagine a three-hundred-pound tiger loose on the island!”

A smirk nearly appeared on Holmes’ face, but he killed it before it could develop fully. “Do your constables have that enclosure ready, Lestrade? We can expect First Mate Bob Krattens to respond to my message shortly.”

“There’s a clothing shop across the street,” Lestrade replied, carefully pointing without dislodging the cubs he held. “I told them to take the food and set up a way to hide them there.”

Inside the shop, we found a variety of shelves, boards, and even a couple of cushions blocking off every exit from the shop’s front room. The meat Holmes had supplied was spread out on a long mat on the floor, to make it easier for the tiny cubs to eat, and the others placed their wriggling cubs in the enclosure as I slowly kneeled. The other cubs made a determined grab for the food, but the cub I held seemed disinclined to release my arm, apparently enjoying being carried.

She finally joined the others in exploring the room and the food after some coaxing, and two of the constables stayed with the shop owner to watch the cubs while the rest of us went back outside to await the first mate.


	4. Chapter 4

“What did you find today, Holmes?” I asked as we waited.

He waved me off, pacing in front of my bench. “All will be revealed in due time.”

I had not expected him to answer, though a free moment before the denouement was so rare that I could not resist asking, and I leaned back on the bench with a smirk, nudging my medical bag further beneath the bench to prevent him from tripping on it. “You are going to make yourself dizzy, pacing like that,” I finally informed him, watching as his pacing carried him four or five steps from my bench in either direction.

He affected a scowl. “It never has before.”

“Just do not fall off the dock,” I replied, grinning.

He huffed, feigning irritation. “I have never fallen off a dock while pacing.”

My grin widened. “So, you have fallen off a dock while not pacing?”

He froze, then fixed me with a glare. “I did not say that.”

I nearly laughed. “I notice you do not deny it, though.”

He opened his mouth, probably to return with the sarcastic barb I expected, but the word barely formed before a cab bounced to a halt in front of the ship. Holmes quickly seated himself next to me, hiding most of his face behind the newspaper I opened.

Bob Krattens was stocky and shorter than most, with an unusual combination of dark skin and light hair, and his face seemed caught in a perpetual scowl. He stomped past us, grumbling the entire time about vague messages and why someone should drag him back to the ship when they could not offload for hours. I lowered the paper as he climbed the gangway, trying not to stare after him as the anger I had nearly quenched rose again. This was the man responsible for such an atrocity.

Holmes waved to the few policemen that had been stationed nearby, and they blocked the gangway behind us as we followed Krattens to the _Lady Pearl’s_ deck, where we stopped a few feet from the entrance.

“Hello?” Krattens bellowed over the deck. “I’m here, Basil. What do you want?”

“Hello, Mr. Krattens,” Holmes answered, his anger turning his voice to steel.

Krattens spun around, eyes briefly widening as he saw us blocking the exit before he hardened himself.

“You’re not Captain Basil! What are you doing here? Get off my ship!”

Holmes raised an eyebrow as another voice rang out behind Krattens. “ _Your_ ship? Did you seriously just claim this was _your_ ship?”

Krattens spun yet again to see Captain Burns join us on deck, Lestrade a step behind him, and in his surprise, Krattens seemed unable to decide if he needed to run or try to talk his way out of this.

“I no longer require your services, Mr. Krattens,” the captain said, his hands clenched by his sides, obviously fighting a temper which, if the sayings were true, was even more volatile than the one I was firmly holding in check. I wanted nothing more than to flatten the arrogant, posturing man in front of me for deciding to kidnap cubs from their mother and bring them nearly halfway around the world. “The Yard introduced me to your extra passengers,” Captain Burns continued, making no attempt to conceal the utter fury coloring his words. “This kind inspector is here to show you to your new quarters.”

Krattens’ surprise disappeared in an instant, and he lunged for the exit with a roar, trying to shove me aside in the process. He only succeeded in shoving me against the railing before I landed a solid right hook, and the Yarders pushed him to the ground a moment later, quickly cuffing him.

“How many times have you smuggled cubs on my ship?” the captain growled.

Krattens sneered. “Why should I tell you that? You enjoyed your cut of the profits well enough!”

“He has made three deliveries,” Holmes answered calmly, ignoring Krattens’ dark glare from where two constables held him firmly. “I have already tracked the buyers. They will be in custody within the hour—if they are not already.”

Krattens launched into a stream of invectives, getting creative as he mixed Indian phrases with British, and the Yarders pulled him to his feet, propelling him down the gangway in a manner barely the legal side of cruel. The captain took a couple of deep breaths before turning to us.

“Thank you for catching him. I should have caught him long ago,” he said with a nod so deep it was nearly a bow.

“Thank Miss Burns,” Holmes answered. “She is the one who consulted me.”

Surprise crossed his face yet again, and he spun to where Miss Burns stood against the wall, lost in thought and apparently glaring at where Krattens had been.

“George? When did you consult Mr. Holmes?”

I noticed Lestrade start at the name, but he said nothing as Miss Burns snapped out of her thoughts and focused on her father. “As soon as we docked. I am glad I was wrong, but I didn’t dare go to the police with my story. No offense, Inspector.”

He waved her off with a faint chuckle. “None taken.”

“Wrong?” Captain Burns asked, ignoring the rest of us as he focused on his daughter. “How were you wrong if you directed Mr. Holmes to what was going on?”

She crossed her arms, now glaring at him, though not as darkly as she had been glaring at the deck. “You are the one you taught me to reason through things,” she told him, scowling. “Figure that out yourself. For data, I had strange noises in a storm, numbers that showed we had much more profit than we should, and a captain and father that brushed me off when I tried to question him.”

Silence answered her for a long moment as he stared at her, stunned. “You thought _I_ was doing it?” he asked, his voice barely audible. “You thought I would do _that?”_

She shook her head. “I could not imagine you would, which is why I asked Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson to look into it, to prove or disprove my theory in a way that I could not.” She turned to look at us. “How did you find out that it was Mr. Krattens?”

“It could only be someone with access to the books,” Holmes answered. “Listening in the alleys near here, I found the word spreading that another ‘shipment’ had arrived, and the cry went up that there was a tiger loose right after I found the contact. While Watson was coaxing the escaped cub out of the alley, Lestrade went back to the Yard to set up the raids, bringing more men with him when he returned. The name I had found for the supplier implicated Krattens, but I could not know for sure that he was working alone until I saw your father’s reaction to the cub. It was a simple matter of gaining that reaction in the most telling manner.”

She thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Which is why you called us here with such a vague message,” she added. “I should have thought of him.”

“Well, however you did it, thank you for your help, gentlemen,” Captain Burns said again before turning to Miss Burns. “And _you_ , young lady,” he kept a stern expression for just long enough to make her frown before a grin crossed his face, “I hope you learned how to keep the books during all that sneaking around. I find myself in need of a first mate.”


	5. Chapter 5

_A large grin bloomed on Miss Burn’s face, but Holmes and I walked away before she replied, checking on the cubs once more. The man Lestrade had mentioned was there with them, coaxing them to eat a combination of milk and the meat the Irregulars had brought, and the cubs ignored us, too busy eating their first real meal in much too long. We returned to Baker Street satisfied the cubs would be safe and eventually returned home._

_Two days later, a box of spices arrived at Baker Street. Holmes did not think much of most of them, but Mrs. Hudson and I would enjoy the rare spices for as long as they lasted._

I set the final page aside and lined up a small scrap of paper, quickly scribbling a short note to include with the manuscript. “These are the facts of the Adventure of the Tiger Cubs,” I wrote, “edited only to protect the ones involved. (If you have kept up on the news, you surely know that tigers are not what has been recently smuggled into London.) I leave it up to you whether they are published. This manuscript may need more proofing than previous ones, for reasons I shall tell you next we meet and for which I apologize in advance, but I imagine it will be a while before I am able to send you another case.”

Finally laying aside my pen, I moved the assortment of supplies I had used before gathering up the pages. I would send them to my publisher for proofing eventually, but for now, I simply folded them and placed them in an envelope. Leaving the unsealed envelope near the far side of my desk, I dismantled the supplies I had used to create a fixed-height straight edge and put them away, wanting my desk to be clear by the time Holmes arrived.

After receiving another case, he had been out of the flat much more often than he was in it. We had not been in the same room for more than a few minutes yesterday, and I did not think he had figured it out, yet. I still hoped he would not have to. It had been only a couple of days, after all; there was still a possibility that it would correct itself, and I would not say anything until that possibility was gone.

With my desk cleared, I leaned back in my chair, turning my attention to the room around me as I decided what I wanted to do next. I was not yet tired enough to sleep, reading was impossible, and I had nothing else I wished to write for the moment. Holmes would return from his reconnaissance down by the docks in a few hours, and I wanted to be occupied when he arrived.

An idea struck me, and I pulled out my viola case with a grin, seating myself on Holmes’ chemistry stool. Losing myself in the music would be a simple way to pass the time, and the last case had not taken that ability from me, at least.

Grateful the neighbors would only complain about music in the middle of the night instead of the middle of the day, I launched into an old folk song, losing myself in the notes and passing the time with a variety of songs that I had known since I was a child. One song reminded me of another, older version, and I spent several minutes working my way through the notes as I remembered trying to teach Harry how to play it.

He had never taken to music, much preferring to draw as I played, but trying to teach him the beginner’s song had taught it to me instead, and I quickly remembered the easy tune. Far too simple to hold my attention for long, I soon started experimenting with different chords, slowly building a countermelody around the original notes, and time slipped away.

Holmes’ footsteps sounded on the stairs, drawing me out of the music, and I glanced up when he paused in the doorway.

“You are back early,” I noted, still playing softly. “Did you find what you needed?”

“Aye,” he said, still carrying himself like a sailor as he passed the window, and I chuckled both at the accented voice and the strange footsteps as he walked by.

“Who is watching the flat?”

“Davis was barely a block behind me when I entered.” His normal voice carried from his bedroom, and I stopped playing to ensure I would hear him. “He continued down the street after he saw me through the window.”

His footsteps returned from the bedroom, and I turned to put the viola away as an excuse not to look at him. “Are you planning a trap here?” I asked, directing my gaze at where I slipped the instrument into its case. He knew I preferred a warning when he was luring someone to Baker Street.

I could almost imagine the smirk flickering across his face, though I did not yet look up from replacing the stool and putting my viola away.

“No, Davis works for Jensen,” he said, sitting in his armchair and filling his pipe. “He will return to his employer with the news that the man Jensen engaged him to follow has contacted the detective. I do not expect Jensen to come here, but if he does, it will be in the guise of a question, not an attack.”

I smirked as I joined him in front of the fire with my own pipe. “Why did Davis follow you? That case is closed, is it not?”

The smoke from his pipe drifted towards me as he puffed on it before answering. “Do you remember the spice smuggling case last month?”

I nodded. He had traced an operation smuggling turmeric to a group of men using a local pharmacy as their front. They had tried to scatter just before the Yard got into place, but they had been minutes too late. They were currently awaiting trial.

“Jensen is Webb, and what an intricate web he created.”

I froze at his wording, remembering another such description, years ago, but he continued before I could ask. “He was the only one to escape the trap last month, and instead of leaving London, he tried to restart barely a few miles away. His current operation is nearly up to its former size, and I shall have him this time.”

I chuckled, purposely sending a cloud of smoke between us as I leaned back in my chair. “You will have to tell me the details. Doyle has been pushing me to send him more cases.”

“The one you wrote today will suffice, I am sure,” he replied easily, probably flicking his hand in the way he usually did when brushing off a comment. “The Strand has enough drivel. It can do without another case for a while.”

He paused, waiting for the expected question, and I smirked. “Did you smell the ink or see the envelope on my desk?”

“Both and neither. Your desk chair also retains an indent showing you remained there for some time, and you have ink on your fingers that was not there when I left.”

I reflexively glanced at my hands as I frowned and quickly stood, mumbling something about not paying attention. Setting my pipe on the mantle, I stepped into the washroom, scrubbing my hands thoroughly. It had probably dried before I had finished tidying my desk, but I would not want to transfer ink around the flat. I would check my viola later.

I rejoined him at the fire after a couple of minutes, settling again in my chair with my pipe in hand. “So, if Jensen is Webb, he knows you are on his trail. Why has he not left London?”

He readjusted in his chair, and I could feel his gaze on me. I wondered what he was thinking.

“Pride, probably,” he finally said with a huff, and smoke drifted towards me again, “but I do not have enough data to be sure. It hardly matters. I will have enough information in a few days to set my trap, but there is one thing you might answer in the interim.”

“Oh?” I lowered my pipe, wondering what I would know about his case that he would not. “What is that?”

“When were you going to tell me?”

I frowned at him, not needing to fake the confusion coloring my expression. “Tell you what?”

“Why did you not say anything, Watson?” He was frowning, and the smoke from his pipe stopped drifting toward me as he set it aside.

“Anything about _what_?” I asked, scowling as I hoped he had not figured it out that quickly. “Quit being vague, Holmes, so I know what you’re asking.”

“There was no ink on your hands.”

A very specific word rose to mind. Of course. It had been a test—one which I had failed. I relaxed into my chair, dropping the façade of eye contact I had maintained. There was no reason to keep it, now.

“Why did you not tell me?” he asked again.

“I…was hoping I would not have to,” I answered quietly. “There is still a chance it will return. What gave me away?”

“You have not left the flat since the case,” he explained, his frown still coloring his voice, “and, while you stopped stumbling over the furniture yesterday, you never look away when someone is speaking to you, even to put your viola away. Either something had happened, and you were trying not to let me see your thoughts, or the case had ended differently than you had indicated. Believing me when I claimed you had ink on your hands showed which it was.”

I leaned my head against the back of the chair, wishing I could see his expression so I could know what he needed me to say. I had been trying to hide it, hoping I would not have to voice the problem, and it was not his fault that a new case had allowed me to succeed for all of thirty-six hours.

“I’m sorry, Holmes,” I sighed, emptying my pipe and setting it aside. “It might fix itself, but until it does, I will be rather useless in your cases.”

“Our cases,” he corrected me, his scowl leaking into the words.

“ _The_ cases, then,” I answered, “for they cannot be mine if I do not help with them. It could be days before anything changes—if anything changes.”

“When were you planning on telling me?”

“Probably when there was no longer a chance it would fix itself,” I admitted quietly. “I figured I would be able to stay home for a few days under the guise of letting the headache fade. The new case keeping you out of the flat made it easier. I simply made sure I did not come downstairs before you left, and you returned so late last night I would normally have been abed, anyway.”

He was silent for a long moment, and I nearly smirked as I imagined the scowl he was aiming at me.

“You never go to bed before making sure I return safely,” he corrected me, “not when I told you I would return that night. You would not have hidden it this long if I had not written off your sleeping in this morning and heading to bed before I returned yesterday as fatigue leftover from your injury.”

I _did_ chuckle at that. His irritation was nearly palpable, mostly that I had successfully hidden something from him for just over a day.

“You said it might correct itself,” he continued before I could say anything. “What do we need to do to help that?”

“I am already doing it,” I answered, trying not to wince at the building headache. I had apparently stayed awake for too long, but I could hardly go back to bed now, when Holmes was still wanting the details of what was going on. The headaches had been coming intermittently for the last couple of days, and I knew they were the result of the concussion I had omitted from the account I would send to Doyle. “That is why I have been going to bed early and getting up late—and sleeping during the day, to Mrs. Hudson’s confusion.”

He did not answer immediately, and I knew he was probably still scowling at me, hearing the sarcastic “hiding it was merely a bonus” that I would not say. I tried to chuckle again but stopped as it jarred my head. The headaches would fade with time, but I had no way of knowing if my sight would return when they did. All I could do was take it slowly and sleep whenever I could. Mrs. Hudson was probably beginning to wonder why I was spending so much time on the settee.

“It was worth it, Holmes,” I said quietly when he remained silent, “even if it never returns. When I think of those poor children…”

For it had been children, not tiger cubs, that the man had been kidnapping in India and smuggling here to sell. I had changed it in the account I would send to Doyle to prevent my readers from being able to trace the events, to trace the children, should he decide to publish that case.

“How long is there a chance that it could return?” he finally asked.

“It is most likely within two weeks,” I answered quietly, my headache building. “If it does not resolve within six weeks, it probably never will.”

There was another long pause before he spoke again. “What caused it? We have both had head injuries before. What made this different?”

I hesitated, leaning back into the chair and propping my leg up on the ottoman.

“Watson?” he asked when I did not respond quickly enough.

“I don’t know,” I finally told him with a sigh. “It probably has something to do with landing so hard. I was fine until yesterday morning.”

Krattens had done more than shove me against the railing; he had nearly shoved me overboard after I had tripped on a coil of rope, though he had still received a colored eye for his troubles. Howling when his ankle turned beneath him while trying to duck my punch, he had followed me to the deck, but I had smacked my head on the railing hard enough to see stars on the way down. My sight had cleared after a minute, however, and I had regained my feet as Krattens screamed invectives about being cuffed.

“You woke up blind and alone.” He shook his head, rubbing against the armchair as he did so and allowing me to hear his movement. “I should not have left.”

I huffed at him, nearly rolling my eyes. “I was fine the night before, and there’s nothing you could have done, anyway. Thanks to you,” I added with a smirk, “I know exactly how many steps there are to either floor, and goodness knows you have dragged me from my bed at midnight enough times for me to know the layout even without a light.”

“Not the point.”

“It might not have been your point, but it was mine,” I shot back, still smirking. “There is no reason for you to scowl at me because you took a case on a day I decided to sleep in.”

“Now who is the mind reader?”

I killed another chuckle as my grin stretched across my face. “Sometimes induction works just as well.”

His huff of feigned irritation barely reached my ears, and my grin widened.

“How is it because of me that you know how many steps there are?” he asked after a moment, his smirk coloring his words. “We only discussed the first seventeen.”

I did chuckle that time, though I regretted it a moment later. “I would not risk you being able to tell me again that I had seen but not observed,” I replied. “There are seven steps between the settee and the door, four to the base of the stairs, and ten between the top of the stairs and my bed.”

Silence answered me, and I fancied he was smothering a chuckle.

“What will happen to the children?” I finally asked when he made no reply, relaxing into my armchair.

“The convent will care for them until a ship can be readied to take them back home,” was the answer, “and the others have joined them as their locations are traced. All of the original buyers were captured in the initial raids, and as of this morning, only one child was yet to be found.”

“There is someone that can understand them, right?”

“Of course,” he told me. “You said that most of the Indian dialects are mutually intelligible, and one of the nuns grew up in India.” He chuckled. “I am told that the one that attached herself to you, the escapee, has similarly attached herself to this nun. She will travel with them to serve as translator on the journey and to try to find their parents.”

I nodded, letting my eyes close. “Good.”

I fell silent, and I could feel him studying me, though I did not call him on it, waiting for his next question. I would give it a couple of minutes before I allowed myself to fall asleep in my chair.

“Take the settee,” he finally said.

I reflexively cracked open an eye. “What?”

“Take the settee,” he repeated. “That will be much more comfortable than sleeping in your armchair.”

I nearly huffed at him, but he had a point. I did as he bid, and I was asleep within moments.


	6. Chapter 6

The days passed slowly, despite how much time I spent sleeping. Holmes stayed nearby, alternating between trying to help and listening to me telling him to get out of my way. The times Harry and I had led each other about blindfolded—or practiced walking around with our eyes closed—stood me in good stead, and I soon learned to navigate the flat with ease, though Holmes claimed my habit of closing my eyes as I walked was disconcerting. I had laughed at the comment, but I laughed harder when walking around with open but unfocused eyes an hour later received an irritated order to “quit staring through me. That is my job, not yours.”

“Pick one, Holmes,” I had told him, still chuckling. “My eyes cannot be open and shut at the same time.”

He made no answer, and I continued laughing, knowing he was scowling at my amusement.

Just as I had planned to hide it from Holmes, I also tried to keep it from Mrs. Hudson, with little success. She caught me two days after Holmes when she walked in to see me on the floor, feeling around under my chair for the pipe I had dropped.

“Doctor, I— Oh, dear.”

“Just a minute, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Closer and to your left,” she said quietly, and I felt my face flush as I found the pipe not five inches from my face. “The last case?” she asked as I stood.

I nodded. “There’s a chance it will return,” I told her, seating myself in my chair as I heard her perch on the arm of the settee.

“Does Mr. Holmes know?”

“He deduced it within minutes of seeing me,” I answered, setting my pipe aside and trying to keep a façade of eye contact. “I am apparently rubbish at hiding anything.”

“I have been telling you that for years, Watson.” Holmes walked through the door behind her and straight to the mantle, and my tobacco pouch landed on the table beside me, saving me the hunt that I would have started after Mrs. Hudson left.

“That’s not what I remember,” I shot back, nodding in thanks as I filled my pipe, though I held off on lighting it.

His faint huff reached my ears, but he made no reply, and I let the topic drop, unsure how far I could take the bickering without the aid of what little expression he displayed.

“What were you about to ask, Mrs. Hudson?”

“It doesn’t matter, now,” she answered. “Are you still planning on eating out tonight?”

I did not reply immediately, thinking, and the way Holmes’ movement stilled showed that he was waiting for my answer just as much as Mrs. Hudson. I forced myself to be honest, running through how I felt and deciding if I would be able to handle several hours outside of the flat.

“Back corner at Simpson’s?” I finally asked Holmes.

He hesitated briefly. “Are you sure you are up for it?”

I nodded firmly. “Of course. I have no issue eating here, and we have been to Simpson’s enough that we rarely use the menu anymore. The back corner will provide enough privacy to hide any problems I may have.”

“Very well. I suppose we will be dining out tonight, Mrs. Hudson.”

* * *

“That was a good idea,” I told him as we left the restaurant that evening, “though you did not have to pay for mine. Thank you for that.”

Holmes paused, then led me across the street and into a passing cab without answering.

“What is it?” I asked as we bounced towards the flat, trying not to land on Holmes as we hit a large pothole.

“I doubt you want to stand on the street talking to Lestrade,” he told me.

“Ah, no, not today, but I would hate to be rude. He did not see us, did he?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Good.” I relaxed back into the seat, gripping the edge as a brace against the bumps I could no longer anticipate.

“Watson?”

I waved off the question. Nothing was wrong; it would simply take time to get used to operating without my sight. After four days of darkness, I was beginning to doubt I would see again, and I knew Holmes knew that. There was no need to discuss it, especially with the cabbie able to hear our every word.

He started quietly describing where we were, as I had asked him before we left the flat, but I smothered a wince as I shook my head. One of those confounded headaches was returning, stronger than ever, and every noise on the street sent a stab of pain behind my eyes. He cut himself off with a muttered apology, probably noticing the wince I tried to hide as we passed a particularly loud group outside one of the pubs, and neither of us spoke before we pulled to a stop in front of the flat.

Taking my arm in his despite my protests, he led me up the stairs and into the sitting room, faintly chuckling as I scowled at him.

“It’s just a headache, Holmes,” I said again. “I’m fine. It’ll go away after I sleep for a while.”

He deposited me on the settee, and I continued to scowl at him as I leaned back into the cushions.

“The others have not made you flinch at noise. How much worse is it than the last few?” he asked me, apparently digging around in the medical bag I had not touched in a week.

I made no answer, letting my eyes drift closed as I tried not to wince at the pain in my head. A quiet “Aha” carried across the room, and I heard him stirring a glass of water a moment later.

“I will not let you ignore the question, Watson,” he told me, placing the doctored water in my hand as I sat up and resumed scowling at him. “How much worse is it?”

“Not very,” I finally answered, quickly emptying the glass to get him to stop fussing. “It’ll go away eventually.”

He made no answer, and I could feel him staring at me as I set the glass aside.

“Stop worrying, Holmes,” I finally told him. “I’m fine. The headaches will go away eventually, and you staring at me will do nothing for my vision. It will return or it won’t.”

He harrumphed. “Stubborn,” he muttered, but he stood and moved to his chemistry table.

“Yes, you have been telling me _that_ for years, too,” I replied, smirking. “You are one to talk.”

Silence fell, broken only by the clinking of his glass chemistry set, and I decided he must have started an experiment. I pulled myself to my feet, intending to go lay in my room for a while to avoid the more malodorous effects of some of his experiments. Orienting myself with the end table, I walked slowly toward the door, carefully counting my steps.

A crash sounded behind me, followed by Holmes’ voice. “Watson, don’t move!”

His warning came a moment too late, however, and I stepped down on something round that quickly shot out from under me, ruining my already precarious balance and knocking me sideways.

I hit the floor hard, knocking the wind out of myself as I was unable to react quickly enough to fall correctly, and I lay still for a moment, unwilling to get up until I could get a full breath.

“Watson!”

I flicked a hand at him, preventing him from grabbing me before slowly pushing myself to my feet as I got my breath. “Calm down, Holmes,” I panted, paying more attention to using the corner of the room and a nearby table to regain my feet than to the way he hovered to my left. “This is not the first time I have tripped; it just knocked the breath out of me. What fell?”

“My test tube rack was too close to the edge,” he told me, still hovering uncomfortably close. “You tripped on one of the test tubes that rolled across the floor.” He stepped closer, his keen gaze scanning me intently, searching for injury from my unexpected tumble, and I used the table to keep my balance as I caught my breath.

Wait. How did I know he was studying me?

My gaze shot up from the table I had been leaning against. I stood to the left of the sitting room door, facing the room. His test tube rack was on its side, with two test tubes broken on the floor and three more scattered about the room. Holmes stood between me and the chemistry table, staring at me with a frown on his face.

“Holmes?” I asked before he could voice the forming question, purposely keeping my flitting gaze looking through him as the room slowly came into focus. I could think of only one thing that could cause this. “Did I hit my head again when I fell?”

He nodded, then belatedly answered aloud. “You hit the wall on the way down. What is it? What is wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I said with a grin, and I focused on him just in time to see the surprise and pleasure spread across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two prompts were “imitate the actions of a tiger” and “the one you were expecting” with the one I was expecting being “major injury."   
> Hope you enjoyed! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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